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In the Land of Gibber

By
Dear Friend,
I bet you're wondering where I am.
I have something amazing to tell you.

In England they speak English
In Poland they speak Polish
In Spain they speak Spanish
In Gibber they speak Gibberish.

But languages don’t really matter
Here in the land of Gibber.
A German speaks his native language
And the person he is talking to hears Russian,
Here in the land of Gibber.

The Gibberish
Here in the land of Gibber
Have no norm.
You could be Catholic
Or Hindu
Or French
Or Spanish
Or an ape
Or a whale
And nobody cares
Here in the land of Gibber.

There are disagreements, of course,
But they don’t get blown out of proportion.
They are resolved peacefully.
That’s why there’s never been a war
Here in the land of Gibber.

Where is it? you wonder.
I want to go there.
I’ll tell you, then.
It is in Bolivia.
Brazil, Bolivia, to be exact.
On the fourth floor of the Invisible Bar.
What?
Where did you THINK it was?


It is not Heaven.
It is not Paradise.
Unless you want it to be,
Here in the land ofg Gibber.

Here in the land of Gibber,
Nobody is shunned
Or hurt
And if somebody does something wrong,
They apologize
And make up for it.
That way nobody holds grudges
Here in the land of Gibber.

Now I have to find a way to mail you this letter from
Here in the land of Gibber.
I could use a homing pigeon
But all our pigeons are already home.
I could use the mailman,
But he’ll get the address wrong.
Oh, I know how to mail you this letter.

I’ll crumple it in my hand,
Here in the land of Gibber,
And throw it as far as I can.
You’ll catch it, eventually.

And we’ll see if you can read Gibberish
And come find me.
We’ll catch up on each other, as friends do
Here in the land of Gibber.





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